Day 63, 8:00 AM

“Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat.”

— Terence

Manny and I stride into the training yard, fully equipped, our chins held high, and our arms locked, as much a pleasure as it is a statement. The one hundred and fifty soldiers I have chosen for our campaign cheer. Meanwhile, the rest are running laps in full armor with gear-laden backpacks.

I feel strange. I can’t pin the exact emotion, but I think excitement is gripping me— I feel pain in Manny’s heart.

“Duck,” I shout, pushing her to the side. The arrow flies below my extended arm. It bites at the cobblestone behind us, screeching and spraying sparks.

I instinctively reach for my dagger, my gaze roving, searching for the sniper. I glimpse a flash of movement and toss the dagger at the attacker without thinking. He’s fifty yards away, turning to flee on the barracks’ tiled roof. Manny is safe, right? He’s too far. Normal people would never make the shot.

A jumble of thoughts floods my mind as I watch the dagger spin through the air. One second later, the pointy crossguard squelches into the shooter’s back, followed by the blade, which sinks deep into the attacker’s body. The man screams and tumbles off the roof with a crunchy splat.

“Are you all right?” I ask Manny, looking down to meet her surprisingly calm gaze. She looks good in armor.

While I admire my woman, the yard full of soldiers becomes a fluster of activity. Some men run towards the assassin, others dash towards us, hopefully to protect us with their bodies, rather than seeking safety.

“General!”

“Noble Lady!”

They don’t put Jeorge to shame and form a wall of flesh around us.

“He is dead!”

“General Aang killed the assassin.”

I’m neither surprised nor saddened by the man’s passing. I already knew the odds of getting anything useful out of him were minuscule. Manny managed to squeeze some more information out of the first one, but the man didn’t last long. He bit off his own tongue and chose death over whatever she did to him.

I give Manny a hand and she rises.

“As graceful as ever,” she flashes me a smile, and I still don’t know if she’s making fun of me, or if she’s genuinely grateful.

“You need to stop this thing with your tone not matching your words,” I grumble, and she smiles like an assassination attempt didn’t just happen, like the broken arrow somewhere behind us wasn’t aimed at her heart.

“I will keep doing it until I’m a shriveled old lady, and the whole world is disgusted by how I’m tormenting my shriveled old man.”

I take a split second to catch the reference. Despite myself, my eyes go wide, and she winks.

“You are too relaxed,” I say, my voice and words growing harsher.

“I have absolute confidence in you. This is the second assassination attempt you stopped, and I look forward to all your future displays of bravery and chivalry.”

Are you messing with me or not? I feel like screaming, but Blunt has nothing to say. It probably understands her, and they are in cahoots.

I look at her. I know she’s amused. The suppressed laughter might be killing her, and yet there’s not a hint on her face.

She has perfect control over it. That means whenever her chin quivers, she’s doing it for others’ benefit or to tease me even more.

“All right! Nothing to see here! If you’re packed and ready to go, we’re leaving. The rest of you, clean up the yard.”

“Oorah,” the soldiers shout back, and I suppress a smile when I see each of them carrying a massive backpack full of supplies. I think going to war without wagons of supplies will change a lot of things, almost as much as not carrying giant cauldrons to cook food in.

Half an hour later we leave the city, a cheering crowd waving us goodbye and yelling, “We’re not gonna take it.”

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I check my screens and sigh. It’s gonna be a long time before I level again.

I was close to figuring out Initial Spearmanship. I could feel it in my fingers, maybe one or two more days, and I would have learned the skill.

I glance at the massive spearhead mounted atop Batsy. It adds about a foot and makes her the perfect length for me.

“Your eyes are gleaming,” Manny whispers in my ear.

“I thought I wanted to be behind the walls, in comfortable safety. You know, soft, warm bed, good food, good beer, not the piss they serve in most inns, a good woman to mount.” I grin and she doesn’t bat an eye. It’s the idiot look again.

“But I don’t think I’m made for that. Too crazy. Too much pent up rage. How much time did your father spend campaigning?”

“I have no memory, but Mother and I waited for him for three years.”

“He didn’t take you?” I ask, and she stares.

“What kind of savage brings his wife and suckling daughter to a battlefield?”

I point at myself with my thumb. “This kind.”

“My lord, do you want us to carry your backpack?” Varren asks, interrupting my and Manny’s whispered conversation. I’m not sure whether he failed to hear us, or came to my rescue.

“Nah, thanks, Varren.” You’d break your spine. Crazy old Phill made me carry rocks as a means of passive stamina training. Crazy old coot.

“Why didn’t you bring a horse, if you don’t mind my asking?” the former proprietor continues chatting.

Because charging forth as the only mounted combatant sounds like suicide? Because every competent archer would take a shot at me? On the other hand, with both Manny and myself armored, we kind of resemble the rest of the soldiers.

“A bunch of reasons,” I raise my voice, bordering a shout, “chiefly because I don’t want to look down on men who are about to share danger with me and bleed together with me. We are equal, and we will fight shoulder to shoulder. We’re free!”

“Oorah!” Their shout shakes the forest, and a bunch of startled birds take flight from the canopy.

“Now,” I use their increased morale, “Glenmir is mere thirty miles away. We are strong, healthy, and obviously full of energy. Let’s have dinner there!”

I get another ‘Oorah’, and we pick up our pace.

Unfortunately, my thoughts are considerably more turbulent than what I’m showing my men. My eyes scan the traitorous roadside bushes and branches, searching for the third and final assassin.

Will he follow us on our campaign? Is he already waiting in ambush somewhere, prepared for his colleague’s failure? Why didn’t all three of them try hitting Manny at the same time? Fending off three assassins should be considerably more difficult than handling one of them. Are they afraid of getting in each other’s way? Is it a competition?

“Did your father ever employ assassins?” I ask Manny.

“Naturally,” she whispers back, “Warfare has a section on assassination and when to use them, you have read it.”

“Did you use your own, or is there an organization to hire?”

“People rarely raise their own assassins for several reasons, the high cost of training, the impossible level of secrecy involved, the infamy stemming from needing an actual corps of assassins in your household, et cetera. It is much simpler to hire the grim brotherhood.”

“Grim brotherhood?”

“A dark cult whose depressive doctrine embraces the inevitability of death, the void after one’s passing, and the hollowness of existence. Strangely, such philosophy birthed a subculture whose members indulge themselves in all kinds of debauchery. When my father described them, years ago, I first thought they would sit in a quiet dark corner, slitting their wrists or something while waiting to die. Instead, they kill for money and use those funds to indulge in all possible carnal pleasures they can think of.”

Manny lowers her voice even more and mutters, “And they are surprisingly terrified in the face of their own death and suffering.”

I don’t ask about the details and pretend I haven’t even heard what she said. Even though she’s feeding me the information, I promised to give her some privacy, and I keep my promises.

“Right, are there any other religious organizations?” I ask, since I have seen no church towers, minarets or other characteristic religious architecture from back home, like a flashing neon arrow saying, ‘Free Salvation Inside’.

“Naturally. I like houses of healing and houses of song. Honored mothers from houses of healing worship the Lord of Light visit and treat prostitute slaves with great care and sympathy. The prostitutes’ fates terrify the healers sworn to celibacy, so they provide free treatment and tinctures which ensure they can’t conceive.”

She pauses and her lip twitches, probably to some memory best left buried, before changing the subject.

“Houses of song are large music schools where major voices instruct the faithful in the art of singing to send prayers to the Lord of Song. My father believed their faith was a sham, but he gladly made donations to Eaglegord’s house of song and they frequently visited our home to perform, or sang in the square.”

She smiles and looks at me. “You often hum some unknown melodies, and after I heard your call to rebellion, I was certain you are affiliated with some house of song.”

I shake my head, denying the accusation. “I’m an agnostic. I know god exists, been to hell and back, but I don’t dare say I can understand their grand design or the game they play out of boredom.”

A silent moment stretches, and Manny smiles.

“This is nice. I have missed it ever since we started conquering settlements and growing our following.”

“What?” I don’t understand what we’re doing that is different from usual.

“We are talking about matters unrelated to war, city management, assassinations, politics, and coaxing people to join our cause. You know, regular, everyday chitchat.”

I tilt my head and stare at her for a moment. She’s serious.

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever met who takes a man literally saying he went to hell and back as regular, everyday chitchat.”